The Remembrances of Sun
by zero
Summary: Spike searches the world for Dru. But what will he do when he finds her?


TITLE: "The Remembrances of Sun"  
AUTHOR: Zero  
EMAIL: zero@mindwell.com  
DISTRIBUTION: Wherever, if it remains intact and I'm credited. If you  
actually want to put it on a web page (what's wrong with you, anyway?) go  
ahead, but please let me know where it is so I can surf over.  
RATING: NC-17  
CLASSIFICATION: Spike/Dru  
DISCLAIMER: They belong to Joss. I would, too, but apparently he hasn't  
got any openings for writing groupies just now.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm a Spike/Buffy relationshipper. Drusilla made me write  
this story; she's got me locked up in the factory. Send help. And  
chocolate. This story can be found on the web at http://www.fanfic.net/  
under author "GroundZero"  
DEDICATION: For Jamie, who was kind enough to beta read this story for me.  
All mistakes are my own, and anyone who doesn't like the story can just  
chalk it up to me not listening to Jamie's wise advice.  
  
  
THE REMEMBRANCES OF SUN  
by Zero (zero@mindwell.com)  
  
  
There's something desperate about the desert in the winter, some unnamed  
thirst which translates itself to visitors and denizens alike. Whether  
it's a hunger for the moisture of snow or a yearning for companionship is  
impossible to tell, but for some reason, I think it's the latter. If the  
desert's hunger can be reflected in me, then surely my loneliness can be  
felt by the desert.   
  
Dru would say that the sands were whispering to her, and they probably  
would be. Telling her all sorts of delicious, horrible things. They'd sing  
their secrets to her, and she'd get that far-away look in her eyes, and  
that smile that curves up the corners of her mouth just a little in a  
Cheshire grin.   
  
I can almost believe that the sands are singing to me, too, but their  
message is not one I want to hear. I want them to tell me where she is,  
where I can find my little princess again, but they don't disclose that  
secret. No doubt if they could, Dru would have scolded them into silence.  
"She's not here," the sands grate, and, "The world is large, and you will  
never find her," says the vast sky.   
  
Oh well. I never was one for talking with the inanimate, so it's easy  
enough to ignore them both. To shrug it off as Dru's infectious madness  
finally touching my brain, and to pretend that I don't believe what the  
sand and sky tell me anyway.  
  
But I do believe it. And it's just another rattling breath forced from  
lungs not accustomed to breathing at all; another long sigh of despair as  
standard response to another country searched fruitlessly.  
  
"Bloody hell," I murmur to myself, eyes squinting across the shimmering  
night-time desert.  
  
Far away on the horizon, the sun threatens me with its impending  
appearance, but I can't bring myself to really care. It's been that way  
since she left; hunger and rage and apathy warring for dominance. Some  
nightss the hunger wins out and I roam the streets of whatever backwater  
town I happen to be in, taking little more than a sip from my many victims  
and leaving them to bleed out on the ground. Other nightss it's the rage,  
and I don't even bother with biting. The crunch of bone is often a  
satisfying sound.  
  
But most nights, like this night, it's apathy. Not that I don't care about  
Dru, of course; but that she's the only thing I care about. And in this  
moment, the sun could emerge to immolate me, and I would not move a muscle  
to save myself.   
  
The moment passes, though, as it always does, and I turn with a sigh. The  
ruined temple is just a few feet away from me; we spent ten days there,  
Dru, Angelus and me. But that was a long time ago, and she has not  
returned to reclaim the memory. I sometimes wonder whether she wants any  
memory of me at all.  
  
The thieves are still standing where I left them, sitting their horses  
uneasily. Only one of them stands on the ground, holding the reins of his  
horse and mine, and he flinches visibly when my eyes rest on him. I move  
toward them wordlessly, and they glance nervously at one another, no doubt  
because of the scowl on my face. I could show them a more frightening  
visage -- one with a twisted brow, yellow eyes and sharp fangs -- but I  
don't bother. They saw that face already, two nights ago, when I killed  
half their number and through the act brought the other half under my  
service. At the moment, they are happy enough to be alive. But, they know  
that their "living" status could change in a matter of moments, so they  
are quiet and submissive.   
  
These men come from a proud tradition of thievery and murder, and they  
adhere to their old ways. That explains quite a few things, including why  
they ride horses in the 1990's instead of just buying a couple of Jeeps.  
The man holding my horse moves to give me a boost to my stirrup-less  
saddle as I approach, but I growl him away and mount fluidly on my own. It  
feels good to sit a horse again, all that lean muscle underneath me,  
responding without a flicker of comment to my every nudged command.  
  
The others mount, as well, and I urge my horse back to the west, where  
earlier in the night I'd found an old stone village that would shelter me  
well through the daylight hours. We could have stayed in the temple, I  
suppose, but there are too many memories there. I pay little attention to  
the shapes of horses and riders behind me in the darkness as I ride, but  
instead concentrate on the rhythmic thump of my horse's hooves against the  
sand and the steady tempo of its breathing.  
  
There's something about horses, you know. I adored them as a boy, as a  
human. For wages insane even in those days, I used to muck the stables of  
a rich family on this huge estate outside London. I would have done it for  
no wage at all, just to be near the great beasts whose calm stance was  
belied by their bridled energy. They were beautiful things, all purebred  
and powerful. Little Sarah let me name one, once; when her father gave her  
a new pony for her birthday. It was one of those with a dull yellow coat,  
dun, and I named it, in the complete lack of creativity which marks  
childhood, "Sunshine".   
  
Kind of ironic, if you think about it.  
  
But I'd rather not think about it, because dwelling on a past that's just  
that -- past -- only results in distraction. And it is never a good idea  
to be distracted when followed by men of ill repute. That was a lesson I  
learned the day I met Angelus, and one I never forgot.   
  
The buildings of the long-abandoned village eventually swim into view;  
cracked walls and collapsed roofs and buildings filled with sand. These  
are not wonderful accomodations, but there are a few structures which  
remain mostly intact, and will shelter me from the sun.  
  
The ruins are small and tightly clustered, so it takes only a few minutes  
to find a building that suits me. It might have once been a meeting hall,  
or a temple for all I care; what concerns me is that it's large enough to  
fit not only myself and my entourage, but also all of our horses. We file  
in, still on horseback and ducking under the crumbling doorway, and I slip  
off my mount even easier than I slid on. I'm silent while the others lay  
out their bedrolls, so they're silent too, casting wary glances in my  
direction. The horses, tied to a jagged broken stone jutting out of the  
wall, stand docile, quiet. I shake the sand out of my clothes lazily,  
wishing I had my leather duster instead of this silly desert-wear, and  
settle myself against a wall, sitting with a relaxed posture and occupying  
myself with staring into space. Apparently comforted by the motion, my  
"escorts" finally settle down and sleep.   
  
I hope that their peace will last throughout the day, but I know that it  
won't. All night they've been casting secretive glances at each other,  
furtively locking eyes when they believed I wasn't paying attention. It  
won't be long into the day that they make their move, and they will wait  
until I sleep. Trouble is, my kind are possessed of endurance. We don't  
really require rest, not as much as our human counterparts. But these men  
don't know that, and I think it will be amusing to see their faces when  
they discover the fact.   
  
Nonetheless, I've never been a very patient man...even when I actually was  
a man, and especially not after another day of fruitless searching. It's  
easy enough to settle back, close my eyes, and think.  
  
Coming to this blasted country with all its sun was all been to find  
Drusilla, just like a hundred journeys I'd already made to a hundred  
forests, deserts, mountains, and cities. My first stop was Sunnydale, that  
spot on the globe that just goes to show that there really is a little  
piece of Hell in California. I was surprised not to find her there; after  
all, it was the last place she'd seen Angelus, and when she woke up in my  
speeding car his was the name on her lips.  
  
All evidence said that she never returned there at all, and after my  
little adventure in attempted spell-casting, I took off. Searching the  
world, intent on finding and torturing her until she likes me again. Fat  
lot of good it's done me. Sure, I've gotten all up-to-date on world travel  
and found out that people of the world are still a bunch of brainless  
cattle, but I still haven't found what I want. What I need. Dru.  
  
They're quiet, I'll give them that, but even without vampiric senses I  
would have known the thieves were moving. They step softly on bare feet  
over the sand-covered floor of our hideout with the whispering motions of  
experienced murders. But it's little matter; I can see them in my head  
without even opening my eyes. Two circling right, another to the left, and  
one coming edgily up the middle.  
  
When the first knife plunges down I shift calmly out of its path, and  
reach out to grab my attacker. One strong hand crushes his windpipe, and  
he collapses, gasping, alive and writhing in the sand like a wounded  
snake. Two of the thieves concentrate their attack; one attempts to  
distract me while the other moves in behind. A sightless kick to the rear  
crumples a knee, followed up by another which earns a satisfying snap. A  
swift spinning kick sends the other man to the ground, unconscious. The  
fourth and final thief, the one who just hours before had held my horse,  
rethinks his strategy and backs off. He heads for what's left of the door,  
and he's only just reached the rectangle of light falling in when I grab  
him.  
  
His blood is somewhat bitter; too much salty dried meat, I think. I let  
him drop to the ground and the blood he's already lost is enough to keep  
him from fleeing. A slick red tide flows from his neck into the sand, and  
he just lays there, breathing shallowly, eyes swimming.   
  
The others aren't in much better shape. One has died from lack of oxygen,  
unable to draw breath through his ruined throat. Another appears to have a  
broken neck; he lays completely still on the ground where he fell, arms  
akimbo at the end of the furrows his falling body has made in the sand.  
The last of them lays against a wall, breaths slow and quiet, still  
unconscious. He'll make a nice breakfast, when day's done.  
  
All in all, though, I find the experience completely unsatisfying. I sigh,  
surveying my work, and calmly shift the lightweight vest that had flown  
open and out of place during the fight.   
  
"This sort of thing," I sigh, "is much more fun with Dru around."  
  
The bleeder gurgles his wordless response, but I don't see much point in  
attempting to decipher his message.  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
It's a logical choice, I suppose, for a vampire who wants nothing more  
than to quietly feed on the gullible population. Salt Lake City, Utah.   
Land of the Latter-Day Saint. Here, demons are only foolish superstition,  
and angels take on the likeness of clean-cut young men in somber ties and  
dress shirts with little name tags that say "Elder".  
  
It's the ideal feeding ground, for exactly ten seconds. After that there's  
no need for sun or stakes, you'll die simply from the boredom. The general  
disbelief held by the populace for anything supernatural would lend well  
to fat eating and a fairly care-free existence, but there's absolutely  
nothing to do. A few gothic dance clubs, populated by pale children  
smoking daddy's cigarettes and playing dress-up in frilly shirts. Most of  
them look even more pathetic than Angel and his terrible combination of  
leather and faux velvet. Most of them look more than willing to become a  
meal if I'll just whisper to them of eternal life and how, when you're a  
vampire, your parents don't treat you like a child and force you into  
church on Sundays. But somehow I just haven't the appetite. I didn't come  
to this disgustingly proper pit for that.  
  
Gerard insists on meeting at the last place I'd want to go: the Cathedral  
of the Madelaine. Of course, as a vampire, I'd prefer to avoid the city's  
only real Catholic cathedral. If it's religious buildings he wants, I'd  
much rather meet in one of the million sterile Mormon churches that dot  
the landscape with all their 1960's architecture and stale air. But Gerard  
knows that, and he knows that the Cathedral will make me uncomfortable,  
and that is why he tells me to meet him there. That, and his terrible  
flair for the dramatic. Before he was a vampire, I'm sure, he was one of  
those black-lipped, black-nailed children, hollow-eyed and swaying to the  
techno beat in this very same city.   
  
I arrived in Salt Lake only an hour before the sun crested the mountains,  
so I'm forced to spend the day in my hotel room, high on the west side of  
the Doubletree. I alternately pace and sleep, dreaming up the tortures I  
will visit on Gerard when I have the information I want. Or, in the  
process of extracting that information. That might be even more fun.   
  
The light seeping through the curtains -- heavy ones, installed at my  
request -- eventually wanes, diminishing, and vanishes altogether,  
replaced by inky blackness. Gerard's message said midnight. I wait until  
twelve-thirty to leave the hotel, and grab a bite to eat on my way to the  
Cathedral. By the time I actually get there, stepping lazily up the front  
steps and averting my eyes from the crosses decorating the stained-glass  
windows, it's nearly one o'clock. I find an unlocked door, most likely  
left that way by Gerard, and enter the church's small foyer. There's more  
crosses there, but they lend only a minor discomfort as I step through  
another set of heavy doors and find myself behind the pews.  
  
The structure's actually quite beautiful, architecturally. The ceiling's  
been painstakingly painted with winged angels and blessed saints, and the  
stained glass of the massive windows glows faintly with the light of moon  
and streetlamps. There's an altar of white stone at the head of the room,  
raised up on a dias, and that's where I see Gerard. Lounging there on the  
stone as if he belong on it. As if he were lord of it. On the wall above  
him, inscribed in pretty paint, is a strangely appropriate Biblical verse:  
  
"Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I  
will raise him up at the last day."  
  
It fits right in with my conception of Gerard and his strange sense of  
dramatic irony. It also fits in with the shit-eating grin on his face and  
the altar boy at his feet, who he obviously made a snack of at least an  
hour ago and toyed with for a few hours before that.  
  
"You're late," Gerard says, stepping down from his altar perch and giving  
the boy's limp body a shove to send it tumbling behind. "Quite rude to  
keep your host waiting."  
  
A flashing vision of Drusilla, my own voice coaxing the calm from her.   
//"I'm sorry, baby. I'm a bad, rude man."// The vision is gone, though.  
Gerard stands in its place. I snarl my fury at the invasion, and he backs  
up half a step, not as tough as he'd like me to think. The show of  
involuntary submission calms me, and I comfort myself with the thought  
that Gerard holds the key to making that vision a reality again. I force  
my human face to the fore and answer him calmly.  
  
"Had to grab a bite to eat. Luckily, those missionaries are like meals on  
wheels. Otherwise you would've had to do a bit more waiting, wouldn't  
you?"   
  
I haven't ventured more than halfway toward the altar, and a snake of  
nausea twists in my stomach. Crosses, crucifixes, and holy symbols of all  
sorts adorn the place and force on me a growing sense of unease. A  
golden-hued painting of Mary Magdeline seems to watch my careful steps as  
I cross the room. It all bothers Gerard, too, but he's obviously been here  
enough that he's built a sort of tolerance. This playing ground is not  
level, but I don't dwell on it; Gerard is young, and foolish, and even on  
his home field I'm more than a match for him.  
  
"Welcome," Gerard says, his predator's smile back in place among a tangle  
of dark hair and darker eyes, and a broad sweep of his arms indicating our  
surroundings, "to my humble abode."   
  
I look around, avoiding the golden gaze of Mary Magdeline, and let my  
expression show that I'm unimpressed. It's a nice little place, yes.   
Nothing impressive, though, when you've wreaked havoc on all those lovely  
old cathedrals in Europe.  
  
"Nice," I tell Gerard, already bored. "Vampire living in a church.   
Very...poetic. That's what you're going for here, right? Yeah. Cute. Just  
look at me, I'm bloody well ready to *giggle*."   
  
Of course, I'm not. I probably look more ready to rip out his entrails and  
use them to hang him from the nicely painted ceiling. I think he gets that  
impression. I hope he's not so thick he misses it.  
  
"That's not what the lovely Drusilla said," Gerard replies, sighing  
wistfully and pouting at the same time. I stop midstep, my boot thumping  
hollowly against the stone floor. The tension that coils my body is  
nothing short of explosive. "The beautiful girl said, and these are her  
words, mind you, 'It's terribly lovely.' That was, of course, right  
before I fucked her."  
  
I don't attempt to restrain the beast that twists my brow and sharpens my  
teeth. It growls, low and gutteral, craving violence. The other vampire's  
reaction is too slow; I cross the room with a quick pounding of footfalls  
and slam into him, sending the both of us tumbling back over the altar.  
The corpse of Gerard's little meal does nothing to cushion our fall, and  
Gerard slips slightly from my grasp, trying to stumble to his feet, rising  
as far as his knees before I have a hold on him again.  
  
"You'd do well to hold your tongue, *mate*, before I bite it off," I  
snarl, teeth snapping bare centimeters from his cheek. "Drusilla is  
*mine*. I thought even young, foolish children like yourself were wise  
enough to realize that."   
  
His gurgled reply sounds much like that of the thief, who bled out the  
last of his life on the desert sand while I slept. That's probably because  
I'm squeezing Gerard's neck in an obvious attempt to make his eyeballs pop  
out from their sockets. He doesn't need the air, of course, but his  
position has to be uncomfortable. His fingers rake at me like claws, but  
the thick old leather duster protects me from his feeble attack. Sad,  
really, when a jacket is stronger than the undead. I wonder whether it's  
possible to decapitate a fellow just by squeezing his neck between your  
hands, like beheading a flower by crushing the strength from its stalk.   
  
Dru used to do that. Laying in a field of moonlit flowers, she'd caress  
their petals and whisper her secrets to them, and then, because they  
mustn't be allowed to tell those secrets to anyone, she'd sever their  
stems with sharp fingernails, all the while giggling and shrieking out  
delightedly, "Off with their heads!" It seems like a lifetime ago.   
  
"Now, Gerard," I hiss, mind once again firmly in the present, pausing to  
bite his ear in a decidedly unfriendly gesture. "I flew all the way out  
here because I had nowhere else to go. And I came here to talk to you  
because I've got nothing better to do. But I'm not so hard up for  
conversation that I'm going to fuck around with you all night. You've got  
two options here. Talk quickly, or die slowly."   
  
I release his neck abruptly and take stock of the situation. I'm standing  
between an altar and a huge crucifix, and I could swear that the sculpted  
white Christ before me is smiling. Somewhat evilly, in fact, as if he  
knows something that I don't and he's just *waiting* for the shit to hit  
the fan. Or maybe he's just anticipating Gerard's pain, which is pretty  
much guaranteed. I should've guessed that Jesus would be a sadist.   
  
Gerard is clutching his own throat and trying to get up, but I hook the  
fingers of one hand against his throat again, and slam his head backwards,  
straight into the base of the crucifix. He screams as the stench of burnt  
skin and hair drifts away, along with a good dose of gray smoke, and his  
body writhes in my grip.  
  
"Drusilla," I say, loving the way her name still rolls off my tongue. I  
hold Gerard firmly to the cross, dragging him up bit by bit until his feet  
don't touch the ground and the length of his back is smoldering against  
the crucifix. "You said in your message that you know where she is. Now,  
I've been on Dru's trail for awhile. Most folks aren't very helpful  
without a little incentive. So I figured, what the hell. I'm finally onto  
you, I've finally got a real, solid lead, I'll play along. At this point,  
I'd say I've officially played. I've jumped through a few of your hoops,  
I've allowed you your delusions of grandeur. I'm tired of your posturing  
and games. I want to know where she is, and I want to know now."  
  
He can't respond, of course, because while he doesn't need air in his  
lungs to live, he does need it to speak. And my hand crushing his throat  
is impeding the process, but that's the real fun of it. This night will be  
truly miserable if I don't get a decent bout of violence.  
  
I'm silent and still for a few moments, waiting for an answer that, in his  
current state, he can't provide. Then I shrug, as if to say, 'hey, mate,  
your funeral', and delve into the deep pockets of my duster.  
  
The first spike catches him completely by surprise; he is clutching at  
the Christ's hand, as if the carved figure could save him, and finds his  
own hand suddenly attached to the wooden hand of the Savior by way of a  
rusty railroad spike.  
  
It takes him a moment to comprehend, and then he tries to scream. Of  
course it doesn't work out, because I've still got his throat.  
  
"Hand up," I order, and I know he understands. He hesitates, eyes locked  
on the second spike, already in my hand, but he moves as commanded when  
the weapon drops to hover near his groin. "Good dog," I say, as I drive  
the second spike through his other hand. When I finally stand back,  
casting a critical eye over my work, he's pinned to the crucifix by spikes  
through his hands, feet, and upper chest. It won't kill him, of course.   
But if I leave him there, the prolonged contact with the cross might.  
Never actually tried that before.  
  
I'm getting uncomfortable myself; the demon in my gut squirms impatiently  
with a need to be out and away from the holy symbols littering the  
building, though it was distracted for a time by Gerard's slow torture.  
That fun has gone and gone again, and there's little to keep the demon's  
attention from the fact that I'm in the sort of position most vampires  
avoid.  
  
"Well then, now that we've had this bonding experience... where's Dru?"  
  
Gerard's throat had a bit of time to heal while I performed my work, and I  
know that he can at very least whisper a scream in a hoarse voice, but he  
isn't quick enough to talk.   
  
"I've done this much now, Gerard," I remind him. "Imagine how much worse  
it can be when you actually make me mad."  
  
He takes only a split second to ponder that before he yelps out,  
"Basement!"   
  
I arch one scarred eyebrow and regard him incredulously. "Basement?" I  
repeat, somewhat dumbly, wondering how well he'd be able to speak with a  
spike through his throat. Being a vampire really gives a guy a neck  
fixation, I think.  
  
"The basement," Gerard nods emphatically. "The door on your right, turn  
left, and down the stairs. She's...in the basement."  
  
I step closer, the demon's reaction to the bloodstained crucifix making my  
stomach heave rebelliously. "I've been up here fucking around with you,  
bored to death, and Dru's...she's in the bloody basement of this bloody  
church? And you couldn't have just said so? What, you wanted to toy with  
me first?"  
  
Gerard doesn't answer; I take it as a yes. "Hasn't anyone ever told you,  
mate?" I inquire, drawing close enough to set the point of my final spike  
to his neck. "The cat toys with the mouse." I shove the spike through his  
yielding flesh, and keep pushing until it's firmly entrenched in the wood  
on the other side. "It just doesn't work the other way around."  
  
Gerard gurgles, and I chuckle in response. I stand back, admiring my work,  
then head for the door Gerard directed me to. If she's not down there, I  
can always pull that spike out, wait for his vampiric healing to allow him  
to speak again, and torture a real answer out of him. But after I step  
through the door, I pause, and look back. There's definitely something  
missing, and if Dru really is down there, everything's got to be perfect  
when I bring her out.  
  
I find just what I'm looking for on a desk in a small office: a string of  
rosary beads, a small cross dangling from the center of the string.  
Smiling, I use a pencil to pick it up, avoiding burns to my own hands by  
handling it indirectly. Back out in the cathedral's main room, I find  
Gerard just as I left him, gurgling and spasming in a weak attempt to free  
himself. I drape the rosary carefully around his head. It's not a crown of  
thorns, but it'll do, and the cross burning into his forehead is much more  
painful than a pointy twig, anyway.   
  
Spirits lifted, I fairly float down the stairs to the church basement,  
turning a few corners and finding myself before a storeroom door. Once  
inside, it's obvious that neither priest nor parishoner ever sets foot  
down here, because Gerard's turned it into his own vampire love nest.  
There's candles set about, incense curling toward the ceiling, and in the  
middle of it all a large, curtained, four-post canopy bed. And there's  
someone lying in it.  
  
"Dru?" I inquire, and the figure in the bed, obscured by the curtains,  
shifts and lets loose a low moan. It's almost a purr. That's my Drusilla.   
  
"Pet," I say, more forcefully this time, in a sharp voice designed to  
wake her. The tone serves its purpose, and she wakes quickly, glancing  
about in confusion before throwing back the thin curtains that obscure my  
view. And suddenly she's there, kneeling on the bed and wearing nothing  
but a sheer silk nightgown. It's nearly transparent. I love it.  
  
"Spike," she says, in that dreamy tone I've missed so much, with that  
smile that's half invitation, half intimidation.  
  
"Dru," I answer, in a noncommital tone. That way she's taken somewhat by  
surprise when I fly at her, knock her back onto the bed, and rip off that  
slinky little thing that can barely be called clothing.  
  
My original plan involved rope, maybe barbed wire. It involved bondage.   
Torture. Making her hurt until she loved me again. I abandon that plan in  
favor of a better one that comes to me on the spur of the moment: fuck her  
until she can't see straight.  
  
I wouldn't say it's a bad plan at all, so I do just that.  
  
For a long time no words pass between us, unless growls and moans and  
screams of pleasure can be counted as words. I bring her to the brink and  
ease her back again, so many times that she's just arching for it, cursing  
my name even as she begs me to please, please not stop this time...  
  
But I do, and it's a more exquisite torture than any I could have dreamed  
up involving pain, and she's delighted and spitting mad at the same time.  
  
"Were you fucking that chaos demon, Dru?" I hiss into her ear, even as my  
body is pressed flush against hers and my fingers delve her depths again.  
She's rid me of duster and shirts, and her fingers dig long, deliciously  
painful furrows in my back. "Did you have a nice fuck with Gerard, too?   
Couldn't wait to screw Angel, could you? Don't I please you, baby? Don't I  
know how to make you scream?"   
  
She does just that, and I smile in satisfaction at having drawn out the  
appropriate response. Her voice, still high-pitched and dreamy but with  
the sharp edge of mingled pain and pleasure, begs me to finish her.  
  
"Tell me you're mine," I snarl, game face evident. "Tell me you're mine  
and *only* mine. TELL ME." She whimpers, trying to press herself into me,  
but I frustrate her by easily eluding her advances. "TELL ME!" I demand  
again, replacing my fingers with something a hell of a lot more  
satisfying, for both of us.   
  
"I'm yours, Spike," she finally says, her voice a panting breath against  
my shoulder. "I'm Spike's princess."  
  
"That's right, baby," I grunt, body devoting itself to pumping into her,  
hard. It feels like coming home. "You're mine. And I'm still your Spike.  
Does that feel SOFT to you?" The question is growled out, and she responds  
correctly, in the negative.  
  
I finally let her go, and come with her, and there's bright red lights  
like the remembrances of summer sun when I sink my teeth into her and her  
blood burns its trail down my throat.   
  
"I've a present for you upstairs, ducks," I whisper, when we're spent and  
curled together on the bed. Her finger traces a pattern on my chest, over  
and over again.  
  
"What did you bring me, my Spike?" she purrs, rubbing herself against me.  
It's a beautiful return to normalcy, even if it is in a cathedral  
basement.  
  
"Come up and see, baby," I smile, sliding out of bed and buttoning my  
jeans; I never actually got around to taking them off. Dru grabs a dress  
from the makeshift closet in one corner and slips it on easily while I  
gather the rest of my clothes, and when we find our way back up from the  
basement, it's with her tucked under my arm. Just the way it should be.  
  
She squeals in child-like delight, clapping her hands together, when she  
sees what I've done with Gerard. Bouncing up to him, her face takes on a  
stern cast and she shakes her finger, saying, "You've been very bad, and  
made my Spike angry!" She giggles again, spinning about to catch me in her  
arms and kiss my cheek. "It's a lovely present, daddy," she sighs.   
"You're so wonderful to me."  
  
I wrap her in my arms, paying little attention to the bloody gurgle of  
protest from Gerard. "What would you like to do with him, baby?"  
  
Dru relinquishes her hold on me to turn and regard her gift with a  
critical eye. Streaks of angry red creep around from the vampire's back,  
as if the cross had injected a rampant virus. His skin sizzles like steak  
over a roasting pit, and Dru takes a dainty sniff, drawing in the aroma.   
  
"The windows will make pretty colors in the daytime," she finally  
declares. "They must look so very lovely on the skin."  
  
Gerard's eyes widen, and he attempts to whistle his objection through a  
ruined throat. His strength is gone, his borrowed blood pooled on the  
floor, and he won't be able to free himself.  
  
I smile slowly. "Death by sun it is, then," I say, with a nod. "Excellent  
choice, baby. Shall we go?"  
  
She turns again, in the circle of my arms. "Can we go back to Sunnydale,  
Spike?"  
  
I narrow my eyes, looking down at her. Does she want to go back for him?  
To find her sire? The question is answered immediately, and I see the  
truth of it in her eyes.  
  
"People to eat," she murmurs, "and pretty Slayers to kill."  
  
I smile: a wide, toothy expression of agreement. Her hands guide my face  
to hers, and her tongue flicks across my brow ridges before moving down to  
plumb my mouth.  
  
"Good to have you back, baby," I whisper against her lips. She concurs  
wordlessly, cold hands wrapped around the back of my neck and pulling me  
to her again.   
  
Oh yes. Places to go...people to kill. This is gonna be *fun*.  
  
  
  
--------------------------------------  
Be kind, rewind...er, send feedback.  
zero@mindwell.com  
--------------------------------------  
  
  



End file.
